Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

84 energy. We had dinner at a place uptown that was much too expensive, but wonderful, and then we went to a movie, and then we went some place and danced and then we walked in the Park. It wasn't only the big news that had gone to Cal's head. It was the town too. He'd never seen it like that before, at night, blazing with lights and noisy with taxis, all the good places to eat and the movies and hotels with people pouring in and out, in and out. He was dazzled. "It's going to be my town," he kept saying. "I'm going to belong here!" Unexpectedly, I thought of the hilltop in Texas with that great, unbelievable moon hanging above it. "Are you so sure it's what you want, Cal?" I asked. "Sure? Why, it's everything! Don't you love it? Don't you feel it, the excitement, the lift it gives you? And not just to live here, but to be a success here, with everybody knowing who you are — " He glanced down at me, and his voice changed. "Well, that's not so, Chichi. It's not what I call everything. Not yet. There's the most important thing yet to come . . ." His eyes held mine with a look that was like a touch, and his voice drew a curtain around us on the crowded street. It seemed to come from far away, and yet to be speaking from inside me . . ."The most important thing in life, but it has to wait," he said. "Until I know for sure. Until I'm a real success. Then . . ." It was like being promised a ticket to the moon. The most important thing in lije . . . was what he'd said. But it has to wait. Oh, I was willing to wait! His words had released something in me, a stubborn shell that had been guarding something I didn't want to admit. It was too big, maybe, too complicated, too new. But when Cal spoke I knew the truth. I was in love with him. I'd wait, and when he had his success, then . . . In some ways those next two weeks were the longest of my life, and in some ways they went like lightning. For Cal it was nothing but work, day and night. I scarcely saw him. He'd gone into the show so late that Barry felt he needed every minute of rehearsal he had the strength for, even though he wasn't going to be in the regular part of the show but was only coming on between the first and second-act curtains, in a little spot all to himself. Cal didn't suffer from the work. He loved every minute of it. Everyone was good to him, too — especially Lise Martaine. He told me so often how kind she was being, how she took the time to coach him — and her time was really high-priced! That is, he told me often on the phone, just before he went home to Mrs. Calucchi's and fell into bed, exhausted. He didn't tell me so often in person because there just didn't seem to be time for anything but work. "I'll be glad when it's over and done with," I grumbled to Papa David. "This way I never get to see Cal at all." Papa David looked up from the paper he was reading. "And that means so much to you, to see him?" I stared at Papa David, wondering if the time had come to talk things over with him. But -there seemed nothing to talk over. Cal hadn't said anything yet. All I could do was wait, and be sure of my own feelings. Sitting there with Papa David, they seemed perfectly clear to me. I said, "Papa David, maybe it's too soon to say, but — I think it means everything." Papa David smiled. "Bless you, leben," he said. "This I have been expecting. As you say it's already too soon to say too much, but in your happiness, Chichi, I will be happy. So now — we wait?" On opening night I went backstage as I'd promised Cal I would, to stand in the wings while he sang. I bumped into Barry back there. He never came out front on his opening nights, because by then the very sight of the audience made him feel murderous. But from the minute the curtain went up I could tell Barry had nothing to fear from this audience. They laughed themselves sick; they held up the acts with applause; when Lise Martaine did her big specialty number they brought down the house. "You're in, Barry," I whispered as the first act curtain came down to thunderous applause. "You've got another hit. Now help me pray for Cal, huh?" Barry squeezed my hand, and didn't let it go as the orchestra swelled out in the love song Cal was going to sing. Somehow as I heard it, my heart began to sink. All along, ever since Barry took Cal on, I'd been hoping one of them would see things my way and let Cal do a quiet, easy little song with no accompaniment but his own guitar. His own song, the one he'd written — "There's Only One of Me." But Cal Is a MOTHER-IN-LAW ever justified in TARING SIDES? TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS has been sent to Mrs. Ada Pizzati of Austin, Texas, for the best letter of advice on October's daytime serial question: (The Second Mrs. Burton) "Is A Mother-In-Law Ever Justified In Taking Sides?" Mrs. Pizzati wrote: In some instances, a mother-in-law might be justified in interfering in her sons or daughter's home problems, but in no case is she wise in doing so. To begin with, custom has decreed that as soon as a woman becomes a mother-in-law, she is automatically "put on the spot." Her most innocent words will be carefully weighed for veiled or hidden meanings, and suspicion will follow her actions. Maternal instinct will naturally prompt siding with one's own offspring and it is a rare mother who can admit it when her child is at fault in a marital controversy. If a mother-in-law wishes to keep good will she had better keep her opinions to herself at all times. FIVE DOLLARS each for the five next best letters has been sent to: Mrs. Eleanore C. Benson, Philadelphia, Pa., Mrs. Noel Johnsen, Murray, Utah, Mrs. Frank Littlejohn, San Francisco, Calif., Mrs. Frank Garbett, Boston, Ga., and Mrs. V. J. Green, Dayton, Ohio. The Second Mrs. Burton is heard M.F., 2 P.M. EST, CBS, sponsored by Swansdown. had been stubborn about trying something more dramatic, and after all I wasn't a professional. When I found out that Lise Martaine agreed with Cal, and had found him a song that he claimed was perfect — and when Barry didn't oppose them — I decided to keep my mouth shut. Maybe they did know best. But the time for maybes was past. This was it, and as Cal began to sing 1 knew dreadfully that they hadn't known best. It was all wrong. It was so flat, so meaningless, that a lump came into my throat. He couldn't possibly get to the end, I thought. I let go Barry's hand and pressed my fingers against my lips. He'd stop in the middle and run off the stage. Poor Cal. Poor Cal. This had meant everything to him. If only I had insisted, maybe they'd have listened to me . . . The music wailed to a stop. There was silence, then a patter of applause, so light that it was almost shocking. It was watching someone get hurt in an accident and being unable to help. Beside me, Barry moved his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chichi." "It was that song, that dreadful song," I burst out. "I told you, Barry — " "The guy insisted. And I couldn't risk more fights with Lise, she was so set on having him do this particular number. Well — he's young. Maybe he'll make out even yet. But this'll have to go, of course. I can't risk ruining the show with one number." "Sure." I twisted my evening bag in damp fingers. "Barry — you couldn't — find something else? Maybe in another part? Oh, I know I have a nerve asking after you've done so much, but . . ." Miserably I stopped. Inside, the second act was going on to much applause. Poor Cal, I thought again. He was so desperate to belong to all this. Barry drew a deep breath. "You know something, Chichi? I'm going to do it. I'm going to try him again. And you know why?" He turned me to face him. "Because I want you to trust me and believe something I'm going to tell you. This guy may have something. Chichi. Maybe he's star material. But whatever he is, it's not for you." I tried to twist away, but he held me. "No, let me say it. I've watched him, Chichi, watched him work. I know him in a way you don't. Has it ever occurred to you that you have been very useful to Cal Duncan? And that from here on out Lise Martaine, a successful actress, could be even more useful?" Letting go of me, Barry stepped back. "Well, I've said it and I'm ashamed of myself but there it is. You think it over, darling. And when you find Duncan and dry his tears, tell him to run up to my office tomorrow and we'll work out his number the way you wanted it done in the first place." It was exactly like being handed a baby with two heads, one nice and one nasty. I just stood there staring, and finally I groaned, "Oh, Barry, you're so darned clever. I don't know whether I want to kiss you for being so wonderful or kill you for being so mean. You're the most confusing man — !" "Not me, I'm clear as a brook. I just happen to love you, Chichi. I'll do plenty to keep you from getting hurt. It's as I say — I'm going to give the guy another chance. I guess I knew all along this number was a mistake, so it's partly my .fault. But I'm doing it partly for you, so you won't fall in love with him out of that old habit of yours of fighting for the underdog. This way he won't be the underdog. Simple?"